I wish I were braver

I wish I were braver.

(Subjunctive tense. I am a grammar genius. Count it. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. About how I am avoiding this topic. Wait no, that wasn't it, was it?)

(Sigh, let's start again, shall we?)

Last week, I walked to a metro station in Maryland, got on a subway with my baby in her stroller and took her to the zoo. And I did it all by myself. Cue applause.

Only ... not. Because that's ridiculous. Because it's ridiculous for that to be a big deal. Because it's really not hard to get on a train. Because it's even less hard to go to the grocery store, to pick up a phone and call someone, to drive a few blocks out of your way to get a cupcake you really want.

Except these things terrify me.

Yael wrote a post a while ago about our comfort zones. About how stepping out of them is overrated. About how we need to take care of ourselves and that makes it okay to stay in.

But I've stayed in my comfort zone my whole life. And I'm not very comfortable here.

Lately it seems like all the bloggers I admire most are saying, "If blogging feels hard, if you feel the pressure from it, if you can't write every day, then let it go. Write less. Let go of the guilt." And I read it and think "Oh good, I'm off the hook."

Except I don't want to be off the hook.

I want the pressure. Because otherwise I won't do it.

Because I need it to be scary. I need to be scared. I need to do it anyway.

Because the zoo? Was lovely. And the train? Was just a train.

I'm doing my best. And so are you.

I'm not lazy.

My dearest Yael is so fond of saying, "You're not lazy. You're tired." It's such a comfort to hear, but so hard to believe.

My house isn't clean. I don't put on makeup every day. I don't do charity work. I only have one child. I don't work, at least not more than 3 hours a week. It took me 9 weeks to read a novel. I don't exercise regularly. I've eaten takeout 3 times this week. My laundry baskets are overflowing (albeit with clean laundry). I've blogged about 3 times this month. I'm afraid to even open my reader.

But I'm not lazy.

I want to do better. I'm learning to do better. But right now, it's hard. I need to learn how to do things. I need to learn balance. I'm not good at it.

I'm not good at not being good at things.

But I'm trying. I'm doing the best I can. And I know that if one of you told me this, I'd put my arm around you and say "Oh, honey. You're doing everything you need to do. You're doing your best. You're doing just fine."

I'm not lazy. I'm tired. I'm learning. I'm trying. I'm doing just fine.

And so are you. I promise.

Not ungrateful, just sad

Lately, I've been having a hard time.

I am inclined to complain, to complain about the sleep, the travel, the laundry. To complain about the screaming baby. To complain about being alone.

I have one child, one beautiful healthy child. I don't work outside the home, and that was my choice and one I'm really pretty content with. I have a loving and (mostly) supportive husband. I don't really have to worry about money (although I do anyway). I have sweet, supportive friends, a great online support system, and a real life mom's group I like very much. It's sunny outside my window.

And I sit around feeling sorry for myself.

I feel like that's unacceptable. Almost unforgivable.

I see you with your losses, with your illnesses, with your challenges and your real life struggles and I feel like I have no right to even join the conversation. I see people with much harder rows to hoe than I have, being out there in the world and doing good work and making a difference. Taking an already full schedule and adding more to it in order to help other people. Or adding more to it to take care of yourselves, which is even more herculean.

What the hell am I doing all day? What on earth is so hard?

I want to feel grateful for the life that I have. I want to appreciate the things I've been given, to realize how fortunate I am. To know that everyone I meet is fighting a harder battle and that my problems don't amount to a hill of beans, and all that stuff. I want to think those things and believe them.

But I'm struggling.

And I don't know if it makes me ungrateful to say that. I don't know if admitting that I need help, that I'm not "content," means that I am taking for granted all the things that I have. I know how much worse it could be. I see it.

And most of the time, I'd rather talk about you than me. It gives me a sense of purpose to be able to help other people. It's probably the thing that makes me happiest in all the world.

But today? I just want to feel sorry for me a little. I'm really not ungrateful. I'm just sad.

I'm sorry, did you say mother or martyr?

On days like this? I'm glad I'm anonymous. Because in this story, I don't come out so well.

This weekend, my husband and I had a screaming match heart to heart about which of us wasn't holding up our end of the bargain in this whole parent/partner thing we're doing. It quickly reverted to a battle of "who has it worse?" (A proud proud moment for me.) Which inevitably ended here:

"Yeah, well I can't even brush my teeth or go to the bathroom without the baby all over me."

"Well why the heck not? You have a playpen, a crib, a swing, and a high chair. Put her down and go to the bathroom."

Blink.

"Well, that's not the point. Maybe I'd do more housecleaning, if you'd come home and hold her instead of always handing her back to me when she cries."

"Well, maybe I would if you hadn't spent the past 9 months telling me I was doing it wrong."

Double Blink.

I don't do that. Do I? Oh gosh, do I?

I love my kid. I love to snuggle with her, I love to play with her on the floor. I love taking her for walks, going to playgroups. I love babywearing.

But geez, people, I'm not a machine.

Sometimes I need to sleep. And sometimes I need to eat. And sometimes (I know, I know), I need to go to the bathroom.

And you know what? Sometimes I'd like to read a book, and focus on it for more than 2 minutes at a stretch, or take a bubble bath, or exercise or sew or bake. And sometimes I'd like to do those things without a baby on my hip or climbing up my leg.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's okay to put her down for a few minutes now and then so I can switch the laundry over. Maybe it's okay to let someone else take her outside if she starts fussing in a restaurant. Maybe it's okay if I'm not 100% available to her 100% of the time.

I don't think she's spoiled. I don't think I've done any harm by giving her all of myself. But maybe I've done me a little bit of harm. I feel exhausted. I feel touched out. I feel like I'm losing me. And I'm tired of whining about it. I'm tired of acting like I have no control over the situation. I'm tired of blaming other people for not helping me when I haven't given them any opportunity to do so.

I'm tired of being a martyr, folks. I'm tired of doing this to myself.

How do you entertain an 8 month old?

For the past 8 months, I've been saying how it seems to be vastly wrong that when you have a baby, they teach you how to feed, bathe and swaddle, but not what to do with them the other 20 hours a day. Okay, so they spend about 15 of those hours sleeping (except Baby Girl who's capping out at 10? Maybe? Including naps?), but what the heck are you supposed to do with them the rest of the time?

We read books. We play peek-a-boo (a lot of peek-a-boo). I sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider. And then there are still 3 hours left until she's ready to think about napping again.

Baby Girl has toys. A ton of toys. She has blocks, rings, stuffed animals. She has toys that sing, talk, count to 10. She has a playmat, a swing, and a playpen. She wants none of this.

Every day we take a walk. Every day we get in the car and run some errands. We go to library story time even though I'm not sure what's going on. We have been to the zoo (where she was more interested int he kids than the animals). Last week we walked 20 minutes to the nearest playground where she played on the swings for the first time. She loved it. For 5 minutes.

And then there was the rest of the day left still.

To be honest, it's a little easier now that she's crawling. She's much less bored and frustrated and is content to crawl around the living room and climb on things. She'd be the happiest baby in the world if I'd just let her play with my shoes, the remote controls, and the audio receiver. Which, of course, I don't. Much.

But I feel like a terrible mother, sitting on my computer and tweeting or reading while she crawls around. I mean, I talk to her. Sometimes I play music for her. (Children's music. And it's totally for her. Honest.) I stop what I'm doing to chase her around the house every 10 minutes or so. But I feel like I should be giving her more, whether it's more interactive play or more interesting things to do on her own.

So, please, bloggy world. I need help. How do you entertain an 8 month old?